


Hypernym

by esteefee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 2x13 Dead Reckoning, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese is many things to Finch, and he can't bear to lose any of them.</p><p>Spoilers for S2E13: Dead Reckoning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypernym

**Author's Note:**

> This story arose out of a chat with [jay513](http://jay513.tumblr.com/) about how devastated Finch looked during Reese and Bear's reunion. There are two interpretations for that. This is the lighter, slash interpretation. :D
> 
> Jay then created two awesome animated GIFs as inspiration that are included in the story.
> 
> Beta by aprilvalentine.

* * *

It was clear to Harold from the first time he met John Reese in person that, though he was bearded, disheveled and layered in smelly rags, a keen intelligence simmered behind his hostile blue eyes. Whether Reese would allow Harold to use that intelligence safely was another matter. They did adapt very quickly to each other's working styles, and although Reese's casual approach to violence sometimes appalled Harold, he recognized quite readily the need for it.

Harold dressed Reese in white Egyptian cotton and fine Italian black wool cut for ease of movement. "Consider it a uniform," Harold said when Reese balked—Harold suspected it was more at the price tag than being forced once again into the trappings of his former employment. But Harold didn't insist on a tie, and Reese left his top buttons open, his suprasternal notch exposed and oddly vulnerable. 

Not that Harold noticed.

Too soon, though, Mr. Reese came to represent more than an asset in Harold's mission to rescue the numbers from irrelevancy. He was a cup of green tea and a doughnut with sprinkles in the morning. He was the lights turning on in the late afternoon just when Harold's eyes were burning from hours of coding. He was a Belgian Malinois by the name of Bear, willing to consume anyone who would dare threaten Harold on the way to the grocery store. He was the shared satisfaction of knowing they'd saved someone's life, or mutual commiseration when they'd failed. 

Mr. Reese was a constant, ironic rasp in Harold's ear, calm whatever the circumstances, devoted to Harold's needs, taking Harold's input, telling Harold what to do, asking Harold for help, back and forth—an endless, perfect volley worthy of the courts at Wimbledon. 

John was a surprising pang in Harold's chest when he said, "I woke up this morning, I felt—it took me a while to put my finger on it, but I felt happy. Must be this job."

Ten hours later, Reese was in Rikers, cut from contact, and Harold had a small taste of what it would be like if all of that were gone forever.

He honestly didn't like it very much.

But truly, it took Kara Stanton snatching Reese up and strapping him into a ticking bomb vest for Harold to understand just how far he was willing to go in order to restore the _status quo_.

The answer surprised him.

:::

"We'll have more trouble getting out, I imagine, than we did getting in," Harold said, staring over the parapet and down into the chaos of the street and what appeared to be an exploded vehicle. Rescue workers abounded.

Reese, too, was staring down, the most peculiar expression on his face, mouth turned down, eyebrows crinkled as if in disbelief. "I think that was Kara's car," he said after a moment. 

"It seems Snow might have taken the initiative."

"Yeah," Reese said slowly. "Well. I guess we should split up. You take the drive."

"Mr. Reese."

"Seeing as I'm still wearing a bomb." Reese raised one eyebrow. "My ATF jacket is downstairs. I can use it to get out. You can be the idiot civilian who was too engrossed in his work to evacuate properly."

Harold suppressed a smile. "Sounds about right."

"Thanks again, Harold." Reese smiled slightly, holding his gaze for a long moment before turning. 

"John. I'll see you back at the library first thing tomorrow."

Reese nodded and left.

:::

Harold found it difficult to concentrate on the tasks at hand—analyzing the drive, and his search for follow-up reports on the bombing outside the building. So far all he'd managed to find out was that two bodies had been recovered from the wreckage. 

He imagined that would be Snow and Stanton. Strange how two problems had been solved in one evening. And with Donnelly's unfortunate death, a third.

Harold's own actions the previous evening indicated the introduction of a new problem, however. There was a distinct difference between putting himself at risk and throwing himself on the grenade.

Seven seconds had remained on the timer, and yes, he'd felt fear for his own existence, but over all had been the absolute terror of losing Mr. Reese, unreasonable in proportion, and irrational, considering Harold wouldn't be around to experience any grief. Seven seconds wouldn't have been long enough for him to reach a reasonable safe distance. 

But this was a fruitless logic path to engage upon.

Harold had resumed his analysis of Stanton's hard drive when he heard footsteps and the clink of the gate, then Bear rose and rushed over to greet Reese with a glad whine, butting into him with enthusiasm while Reese laughed and called him a "Good boy." Reese smiled broadly at Harold and let himself be bowled over by Bear's affection.

  


Harold watched the happy reunion, his chest constricting, unable to smile back, quite. Reese looked refreshed, as if the previous week were simply a bad dream. A mere blip. The sight made Harold suddenly furious—the loss, oh, the unbearable loss of all the hyponyms that made John Reese, only the least of which was _asset_ —how could John so casually dismiss the jeopardy he'd been in this past week?

  


The jeopardy Harold had shared?

"Are you quite finished? That is a new suit, Mr. Reese."

Reese sat up, his smile fading. He snapped his fingers and Bear gave him space enough to stand. 

Harold directed his attention back to his screen, aware of Reese making his way over to their board, where Kara Stanton's picture was still taped up.

Reese stood for a moment, then said, "The hard drive tell you anything?"

"Nothing yet. Whatever she uploaded, the encryption is remarkable. I can only assume that the malware it's protecting is equally sophisticated." Harold leaned back. "The only thing I've been able to decompile is when it's set to go live—a little more than five months from now." 

"What happens then?"

"I suppose we'll find out."

Reese turned to look at him. "Finch. Thank you."

Harold didn't dare look up. If he did, his anger might run away with him. "Please, don't mention it." 

"Why not?" 

Harold did look up at that, because he knew that tone. It was the one Reese used when he was advising Detective Fusco to do what he asked, or else—so deceptively light one almost missed the steel.

"Because I asked, Mr. Reese."

"Seems like a simple thing—to thank you for saving my life." Reese stepped close and leaned his hip on the table. "You would have died too."

"But that didn't come to pass." _This time, this time,_ Harold's traitorous mind supplied, and offered the many different scenarios when he'd been trapped behind this very desk listening to Reese fighting with various assailants, many of them armed, only to hear gunshots and with no idea who had fired or who had been hit.

"Anyway, you're back now. And 'happy' again, I take it." Sweat tickled along Harold's hairline. He looked up from his screen to find John observing him closely, a wry grin tugging his cheek. 

"Oh, Finch. I'm sorry."

"About what?" Harold said, irritation plain. 

"About this," Reese said, and slid from the table to kneel beside Harold's chair. Reese moved so smoothly it didn't register as a threat, and yet it was—to Harold's composure, to his presence of mind—because Reese then placed his hands on Harold's knees and turned his chair until they were face to face and close, so very close. Harold's pulse ticked in warning.

The bright grin of earlier lit Reese's face, but this close, Harold could also see the strain of the past five days in the redness of Reese's eyelids, the paleness of his skin. 

Harold looked down at Reese's mouth and saw him wet his lips.

 _Oh,_ Harold though, feeling very stupid indeed. _Must be the job,_ Reese had said. And by 'job,' he'd meant—

Reese leaned forward and kissed him, hands cupping Harold's cheeks. John's lips were cool, but his tongue was warm when it pressed audaciously into Harold's mouth.

Harold supposed he should be alarmed, or at least outraged by the effrontery, but he felt John smiling against his lips, and realized he was kissing John back, which would at the very least imply he was neither of those things. The way Harold clutched at the one-eighty thread-count wool of John's lapels would also seem to be supporting evidence that he didn't want John to go anywhere or be doing anything else at this very moment, and when John relaxed suddenly, his hands dropping to clasp Harold's and his neck going loose to ease the angle of their mouths, Harold felt a satisfying rightness pounding to his pulse. Yes, yes, this was correct, the back and forth, the give and take he was so familiar with, spoken in a new tongue. 

A faint, hysterical giggle echoed in the back of his mind, and he pulled away to see John's eyes open, his cheekbones flushed. 

John licked his lips thoughtfully, and Harold shivered.

"Well, Harold, do I need to get that apology ready?"

"That won't be necessary," Harold said, appalled at how breathless he sounded. He unfolded his cramped fingers from John's suit jacket, but John seemed disinclined to let go of his hands. Harold yanked a little playfully, and saw John wince. "Oh, get up. Your knees must be killing you."

"You don't want me on my knees?" John grinned. 

Harold's groin gave a small twitch. "We can discuss that somewhere carpeted. You've had a...difficult week."

Reese's eyes dropped, and Harold raised a hand to the purpled bruise over his left eyebrow, stroking it lightly with his thumb. He delighted when John leaned into his touch ever so slightly.

Harold took a breath. "Can I ask you to please stay out of trouble for my sake, just for the next little while?" It was as near as he could come to saying what he really meant, but John seemed to understand, because he turned his head and pressed a kiss to the palm of Harold's hand. It was all Harold could ask for and, really, nothing had changed in fundamentals. Nothing could. His heart eased at the thought. 

"Whatever you say." Reese pushed himself to his feet. "Now, how about I take Bear for a walk and get you a cup of tea?"

"That sounds...good."

Reese flashed him a grin. "Good. Good." He whistled for Bear and strode out, tall in his black suit, worlds contained within.

Harold watched him go, and then went back to work. 

 

_End._

**Author's Note:**

> I claim artistic license on the timeline between the roof scene and the library scene. No way would John wait that long to go see Bear and Finch. <3


End file.
